


Of a Definitive Nature

by robpatFF



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/pseuds/robpatFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are the generic, simple answers to interview questions. And then there are the real ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of a Definitive Nature

**Author's Note:**

> Owned: Nothing. Not a thing here is mine. This is fiction, it never happened, etc, etc, cry, cry.

\-----

Interviewer: Have you always gotten along?

\-----

Louis is immediately drawn to Harry, his hair and the baby fat that clings to his cheeks and his stupid, mischievious smile. 

Harry seems to orbit around Louis, getting closer and closer until he pulls back suddenly, sending a sly smirk towards Zayn or putting his arm around Niall or ruffling Liam’s hair. Louis doesn’t get jealous, he doesn’t, but he can’t help but want Harry’s eyes on him, his warm skin pressed tight against Louis’, his lips mouthing absolute nonsense into Louis’ ear and smiling when he laughs. 

He watches Harry when he sings, watches his throat bob when he hits those raspy notes, the way his head dips down. Louis watches the way Harry shakes his hair out, flips it back away from his face and looks toward Louis for confirmation. And sometimes Louis will tell him to fix his fringe, just to watch Harry do it all over again. He’ll smile when Harry looks up, a bit more hesitant this time, and murmur, “Perfect, Hazza,” into his curls.

He wraps his arms around Harry when they get through another week. Shoves through the other boys to put his arms around Harry and inhale, buries his nose in his hair and feels Harry’s body shake with excitement and adrenaline and surprise. 

“I can’t believe we made it,” Harry says, and his voice sounds strained and awed and _young._

And Louis can’t help but press closer, try and climb into the folds of Harry’s skin and stay there for as long as he can. “We made it, Haz.”

He sighs when the others join in, their arms tangled with each other and crowding each other’s space. They breathe a collective sigh of relief each week, fingers trembling where they’re clasped together, eyes wet with exhaustion and emotion and the fact that a million eyes are on them, watching.

They do the same when it eventually ends. When they don’t get through and Louis hears Harry choke beside them. His own hands are shaking, his heart thumping almost out of his chest, his face burning red even though they’ve made it this far. Harry chokes next to him and Louis reaches a hand out to comfort him, to touch, because X-Factor is gone but Harry isn’t. Harry is here and real next to him, warm and heavy and clinging back.

Louis turns into the hug that Liam gives him. He feels Niall pressing against his back and Zayn’s hand on his shoulder from where he reaches around Liam. Louis takes comfort from all of them but keeps one arm around Harry, because they’re all in this together but Harry is _his._

\----

Interviewer: What’s the best part about performing?

\-----

Louis can hear the crowd screaming even from in their dressing room. The walls seem to vibrate with the sound, almost shaking with the volume and intensity. 

They all have their own separate rituals before a show, all of them giving everyone the space they need to get into the right mindset.

Zayn blinks at himself in the mirror, busying his hands with product, slicking up his hair even though his stylist has already made sure it won’t move. His eyes are dark in his reflection, gaze landing upon each of them and they make sure to smile back, make sure he knows he’s not alone. 

Liam runs through the lyrics under his breath, his leg tapping a beat into the floor to the imaginary music. His voice sounds soft and smooth in the room, all of them calming down a bit as he goes through each song. Occasionally Harry will chime in, his low rasp a welcoming contrast.

Louis makes faces at Niall, each of them trying to out-joke each other in their own little corner of the dressing room. It gets louder and louder, both of them ignoring the annoyed glances Zayn sends them, because they know he doesn’t really mean it, know it’s all nerves. Louis basks in the sound of Niall’s laugh, the way he sounds so carefree and relaxed. Louis can’t help but take from that, leach the happiness out of him until it suffuses the both of them, spreads through their bones and veins and skin. 

Louis tries not to go to Harry, tries to give him enough space to pace and stalk around, getting his thoughts together. Harry is always like this before a show, keyed up and primal almost, his long legs circling around his dressing rack. He fidgets with his clothes, fixing his blazer, shaking his hair out until he’s almost lost some of the curl. 

Louis only smiles at him when Harry finally moves into his orbit again, his bony knees nudging at Louis to move over on the small couch, squeezing his body into the space between Louis and the arm. 

“Tell me a joke, then,” he says, his voice slow but fond. Relaxed. “Your best one.”

Louis drapes his legs over Harry’s, rests his head against Niall’s shoulder. “Why did the fish get kicked out of school?”

Harry looks thoughtful, eyes drooping a little as tries to work it out. His face is pink with nerves and excitement and the thought of showing off in front of thousands of girls. His smile is small but genuine, and Louis presses a finger into it, feels the chapped skin and the way his lips thin when his smile widens. 

“You’ve stumped me, Tomlinson,” he says finally. “I don’t know.”

Louis clears his throat, builds up the suspense. “He got caught with seaweed,” he says.

Harry gives the expected groan, his eyes shutting in disgust. Niall’s shoulder shakes under Louis’ head, his laughter sharp in his ear, delighted. He manages to dodge the pillow Zayn throws at him, smiles at the, “You are such an idiot, Louis,” that gets tossed right after.

But then there’s three minutes until they’re set to be on stage and they’re all scrambling to get ready. They stand just out of sight behind the stage, shaking out last minute nerves and breaking the tension that stiffens up their bodies. Louis finds Harry, presses a hand to the sharp dip in his tailbone. He knows it’ll be damp with sweat later, salty and warm. 

“Ready?” he asks. 

Harry swipes his hair back, expression already transforming into something bigger and larger than life. Harry was born to be on that stage, throwing himself into a performance, smiling at all the adoring fans that Louis thinks Harry deserves more than anyone. Louis lifts his shirt up a bit, fingers demanding to touch Harry’s skin, feel him like this before he turns into the performer he really is.

Harry grins at him, wraps an arm around his shoulder and matches them up, hip to hip. “Ready,” he says.

The lights dim and the screams are _deafening_ and they all run out on stage, pumping up the crowd. The lights flash and Louis meets Harry’s eyes, bright and wild and as invigorating as the noise all around them. Harry winks and turns away, but Louis can still feel his gaze burning a brand into his skin. 

\-----

Interviewer: You and Harry live together, right? What’s that like?

\-----

Harry’s bed is bigger than Louis’, fluffier and warmer and more comfortable. He buries himself underneath the covers, hiding from the sunlight that streaks the room bright. He’s sweating a little, overheated and exhausted, but he’s too lazy to move.

Some time during the night Harry shifted away from Louis and now he’s turned on his side, curls facing the other way. Louis shimmies closer, careful not to jostle the bed too much. He watches the rise and fall of Harry’s chest, shallow and delicate, the way he shivers involuntarily when Louis runs a finger down his spine, tracing the crevice that settles deep in the middle of his back. 

Harry looks so young like this, even though he’s not that young anymore. Louis has watched him grow into his gangly limbs, carve muscles into skin and build a sculpted jaw into a face that used to be soft. His hair hangs in his face, his mouth open slightly, and Louis presses his face into Harry’s neck, noses at the skin. 

“Harry,” he whispers. “Wake up.”

Harry turns around almost immediately, his eyes heavy-lidded. “How could I sleep with you watching me like that?”

They’re too close now, noses almost touching. Louis smiles and Harry follows suit, slower and more subdued. “Hi,” he says, and Louis kisses him.

Kissing Harry is like waking up late on a Sunday morning. Slow and pleasant. His lips and hands cling to Louis’, like a person clings to the last few moments of sleep. He pushes in close, growing more confident, more desperate. Harry tastes like a mixture of sleep and disgusting, but he gives and gives and gives and Louis takes and takes and takes. 

Harry pulls back first, his eyes still lazy-lidded and a smile hovering on his face. “Hi,” he says again, and his hand rests on Louis’ waist. “You look tired.”

“I am tired,” Louis tells him. “And I require sustenance.”

Harry has an incredible amount of ways to laugh. Louis’ favorite is his full body one, the one where he throws his head back, shows off the long line of his neck. Louis likes this one too, where Harry’s mouth widens almost involuntarily, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Why does everyone say I’m the brat?” Harry asks. “It’s clearly you.” But he still starts moving, his limbs long and feline as he stretches, smirking when Louis’ eyes stray. “What do you want? Eggs?”

Louis nods, his eyes on the sleek lines of Harry’s back, the messy way his curls fall over his face. “And toast.”

Harry rolls his eyes, grabbing sweatpants from off the floor and tugging them on. He looks rumpled and sleepy and Louis aches to touch him. “Come here,” he says.

Harry does, of course, and Louis pulls him back into bed. “I can’t really make you breakfast from here, Lou,” he says. 

Louis shuffles closer, his arms wrapping around Harry’s waist, nose nudging at his neck. Harry feels solid and warm here, his body molded to Louis’. Louis doesn’t have to share him with three other boys when they’re in here, hidden under the covers. He can touch and taste and feel, and Harry is just his.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. He traces the goosebumps popping up on Harry’s skin, smiles when he feels him shiver.

“Not really, no,” Harry says.

Louis is more tired than anything, and he can feel the way Harry is already relaxing back into the bed, his breathing slow. “Go back to sleep, then.”

Harry just hums, his body shifting back into sleep. Louis follows, their arms and legs and hearts all tangled up as one.

\-----

Interviewer: Is it hard to find girls who like you for you and not your newfound fame?

\-----

After a show Harry’s hands always shake, the adrenaline pumping through him and setting him on edge. His eyes are bright green when they settle on Louis, wild and excited and exhausted. They take a final bow and Harry’s trembling fingers find his and clasp tight.

Louis’ own blood is rushing through him, crashing loud in his ears and making him short of breath. His hearing is muted when they leave the stage, feet moving on autopilot as they all scramble into the dressing room. His skin feels hot to the touch, flushed and overheated as he changes clothes. 

Harry is always the last to leave. Louis watches him from the door, watches him peel off his clothes, push his hair back, wipe his stage make-up off. They don’t need to talk now, because Harry says everything he needs to say in the way his eyes are hooded, watching Louis through his reflection in the mirror. He can see it in the way Harry’s shoulders are set tight, the way he moves around the room like a caged animal, waiting to strike. 

The drive back to the hotel is quiet, Louis’ hand resting on Harry’s knee, calm, urging Harry to relax.

He doesn’t, of course. He won’t until after. Later.

The hotel door closes softly behind Louis, almost silent as Harry stalks over to the bed. He looks young when he looks up at Louis, but he still looks like a performer, like an entertainer, and Louis wants him to look like his Harry again.

His fingers tangle in Harry’s curls, and he grabs hold and tilts his head back. “What do you want?” he asks quietly. He’d give Harry anything, give Harry _everything_ if he asked for it. 

Harry swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the motion. His mouth is obscene, red from his constant biting and overuse. “Anything,” he says. Louis tugs a little harder, raises his eyebrows, and Harry gasps. “You.”

It’s an effort to get Harry’s clothes off, because Harry’s still shaking and Louis is moving too fast and they’re both desperate for it. Louis can’t get enough of this, can’t get enough of Harry laid out like this, his long lean body on display and waiting. Wanting.

They barely kiss. It’s more like a mess of mouths and lips and tongues moving together, struggling to get closer to each other. Louis can feel Harry hard against him, can see the way he rocks his hips up, begging for friction. 

“Louis, please,” Harry says, and Louis _can’t_ say no to him, can’t keep him waiting.

He fumbles getting the lube out of his bag, squeezes too hard and can’t help but laugh when half the bottle spills out. His own fingers shakes when he pushes one into Harry, feeling the overwhelming heat and tightness, the way Harry’s body just opens up to him, accepting. 

Louis can’t take his eyes away from Harry, how he throws his head back, his neck exposed, unbruised and unblemished. Louis can’t help but change that, can’t stop himself from biting down hard, feeling a rush of arousal when Harry moans underneath him at the sensation. He kisses the bruise after, silently hoping it stays for a few days. 

He adds another finger, holding a hand to Harry’s hip when he moves too much. “Feel good?” Louis asks, just to make sure.

Harry nods, his pupils dilated, face flushed. “Yeah,” he manages. “Come on, please--”

“Not yet,” Louis tells him, because he wants more than anything, but hurting Harry is never an option. “Almost there.”

Harry gives an impatient whine that turns into a curse when Louis moves his fingers a little faster, spreading them wide. Harry bites his lip hard when he puts in a third one, stretching Harry enough to make this pleasurable. 

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Harry babbles, his hand gripping Louis’ wrist and stopping him. “Come on, Lou.” His voice sounds wrecked and hoarse and Louis is suddenly wearing too many clothes.

He stumbles out of his trousers and pants and shoes, nearly snaps his neck off with his shirt. Harry has to help him with the condom, because they’ve done this before, but it always hovers on too much for Louis, his feelings and thoughts and wants spilling over and blinding him. They’ll have to change the sheets for the lube alone with the way Louis can barely hold the bottle, eyes on Harry when he tosses it to the side and lines himself up.

He struggles to go slow, easing himself in while he holds himself up on shaky arms and shallow breaths. Harry’s hands grip his sides tight, almost painful, and Louis trembles with the effort to stay still and wait.

He kisses Harry, gentle this time, light. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Harry murmurs, eyes clenched shut. “I might die if you don’t move.”

Louis laughs, slides out and in again, slow. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

If Louis could pick one place to be for the rest of his life, it would be here. His skin feels stretched tight over his bones, every breath heavy and sharp from his chest. Harry’s face goes slack with pleasure, losing the tension it held before in the corners of his eyes and mouth, in the lines on his forehead. 

Louis would pick here, because no one sees Harry likes this, desperate and open and beautiful. They don’t see the way his muscles tighten, the red flush that goes from his face down to his cock. They don’t hear the way he curses when Louis finally takes hold of him, stroking, teasing, drawing it out.

“Louis, please,” Harry begs, and no one hears that through the closed door and thick walls. It’s all for Louis, how Harry is now, and Louis never has to share this.

He moves faster, his hips trying to keep up with the hand he has on Harry. He’s losing control, he can tell, his body jerking as he tries to keep a rhythm. 

“I’m close,” Harry tells him, his chest heaving and his eyes nearly black. “Fuck, Lou, _fuck_.” 

Louis watches Harry tense and fall apart, his pretty mouth opening wide, a whispered litany of expletives and _oh my god_ that Louis kisses away. He feels his own orgasm take over him, his vision going black for a moment as he tries to move through it. Harry’s hand is soothing on his back, and the murmured, “Love you,” bringing him back to his senses. 

“Love you too,” he manages, barely able to roll off of Harry before he collapses. He ties up the condom, dropping it next to the bed. They’re sticky and disgusting and in need of a shower, but Harry looks so good with his eyes closed, a smile lingering on his lips. 

It can wait. 

\----- 

Interviewer: Do you have any regrets? 

\----- 

The bungalow is quiet in the dark hours of the morning when everyone should still be asleep. Louis wakes up to silence, Harry’s side of the bed long-deserted and cold. He debates getting up, because the bed is warm and soft and outside it’s _not._

He waits it out, but after a half hour Harry’s still not back. It’s ridiculous, really, how Louis can’t even imagine falling back asleep without Harry here with him. But the bed feels huge without him, his legs kicking Louis during the night, his hair getting everywhere, knotted up between the two of them. 

Louis grabs a sweatshirt, pulling it over his head as he tiptoes through the house. All the other bedroom doors are shut, no light peeking underneath. Louis checks the kitchen first, just to make sure. The bathroom’s next, and then the front patio. 

There’s a fire going in the back, and Louis looks out the screen to find everyone laid out on the grass, huddled near the fire and bundled up with blankets. He slips out and feels the dewy grass beneath his feet, the cold seeping underneath his hoodie and making him shiver. 

Liam moves over when he sees him, making room next to Harry. Zayn’s on the other side of Liam, eyes puffy and looking half asleep. Niall lays on the ground next to Harry, head pillowed on one of Harry’s legs. Louis burrows under the half of the blanket that Harry offers up, huddles up against him and breathes in. Harry smells like sleep and smoke and soap, his hair still wet where it brushes against Louis’ face. 

“Didn’t want to wake you up,” Harry murmurs. They’ve obviously been out here for awhile, the embers dying down, leaving a low, orange glow to the early morning. 

“Can’t believe you slept through our last night here,” Zayn teases. 

Louis gives him a nice two-fingered salute when he realizes Zayn’s too far to kick. “Need I remind you that you basically slept through our entire tour?" 

Niall laughs, cutting off any remark Zayn might make. “He’s not lying about that. You got more sleep than any of us, didn’t you?" 

Louis can hear Zayn’s huff, feels Harry’s body shaking with laughter beside him. “Don’t wind him up,” he warns. “You know he likes to sulk.” 

“Heard that, Harry,” Zayn tells him, and this time Louis _does_ kick him. 

Liam nudges him back towards Harry. “I’m in a band with children.” 

It’s easy like this, them all sitting around and talking. It had been easy the first time too, when they had all been strangers thrown together into the unknown. Louis leans further into Harry, feels himself getting drowsy again. 

“Well, boys,” Liam says, “it’s been one hell of a year.” 

Their first World Tour is done, the fans gone home, and Louis still feels like he can hear their screams, see their faces as they all sing along. His heart still feels like it’s going in over-time, beating out of his chest with adrenaline. 

“Any regrets?” Liam asks. 

Zayn murmurs something about sleep and more hair product, and Niall regrets not trying out more food. Liam doesn’t regret anything except not getting to see Danielle as much, like all the boys know. 

“I don’t have any regrets,” Harry says. He turns toward Louis, eyes dark. “How about you?” 

Harry’s hand squeezes his underneath the blanket, his fingers cold. He can feel Zayn and Liam and Niall watching him, waiting like they always do. They always wait for Louis, and Louis would do the same for them. 

He would do the same for the boy sitting next to him, with his long legs and curly hair, his green eyes on Louis. He thinks of the tour, of Harry’s voice cracking after a big performance, of his mouth on Louis’, pink and swollen, his hands roaming. He thinks of waking up for interviews at the crack of dawn, Harry’s body still with sleep next to him. Thinks of stolen kisses and subtle touches and Harry’s skin and Harry’s eyes and _Harry._

“No,” Louis finally decides on. “I don’t have any regrets either.” 

\----- 


End file.
